


filius meus

by bacondoughnut



Series: my father my father and me [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Parent Martin Whitly, Canon-Typical Violence, Custody Battle, Disturbing Themes, Family Feels, Gil Arroyo Whump, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, Hurt No Comfort, Malcolm Bright Whump, Martin Whitly Being an Asshole, Mild Gore, One Shot, Protective Malcolm Bright, Torture, but make it weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27279607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: Dr. Whitly escapes from prison and his first stop is to call on one Lieutenant Gil Arroyo. Turns out he's not all that happy about Gil stepping in to take care of the Whitly family in his absence.
Series: my father my father and me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003005
Comments: 17
Kudos: 51





	filius meus

It's far from the first time that Gil's woken up to a splitting headache. Even one this extreme. But he's going to blame the pain for how long it takes him to remember that, if he's not careful, this might be the last time that he does.

His eyelids feel too heavy to bother opening, but his shoulders ache and he shifts uncomfortably. It's when he moves that he realizes something's off. He's not in bed, the surface beneath him is hard and oddly pokey. And even if it weren't, he's not accustomed to going to bed with his arms chained up above his head.

The immobility actually sparks the memories before it sparks the panic.

Martin Whitly escaped from prison. Martin Whitly escaped from prison and came almost directly to Gil's front door, and Gil opened it like some kind of idiot.

"Lieutenant Arroyo," an all-too pleased voice purrs from somewhere over his shoulder. "It's nice to see you're up and about. For a moment there, I was worried I got the dose wrong."

He's so fucked.

No. He shakes his head, reminds himself to get it together. He's not giving up so easy. He won't do that to his family, and he certainly won't give that to Martin Whitly.

"There's a shocker," Gil says, surprising himself with how scratchy his voice sounds. He clears his throat, finally opens his eyes, and adds, "I didn't know you were capable of self doubt."

"Well, I have my moments. Rare ones, but I'm only human, after all."

Gil hums doubtfully. "I'm not sure you qualify, Doc."

"Now that's just rude."

Gil turns his attention to their surroundings. The ground, it seems, is so oddly pokey because it's coated in hay. There's daylight pouring in through the slats in the walls. Wooden posts supporting the structure, not unlike the one his wrists are currently strapped to. He's in a barn. The Surgeon took him to a barn.

Which means they're probably on the outskirts of the city. Martin doesn't seem all that concerned about Gil yelling for help, and that's probably because he doesn't need to be. There's not going to be anyone around for miles.

"So...You're a free man after twenty years and I'm your first stop?" Gil says, resisting the urge to turn around. Martin's still loitering somewhere behind him, but he won't betray his nerves by craning his neck to look. "I'm honored."

"Don't be," Martin says. "You've earned it."

Something in his inflection sends a shiver down Gil's spine.

He gives his wrists a small jerk, testing how much give he can get from the chain. Not much. He doesn't know what he was expecting, of course it wasn't going to be that easy.

"Only seems fitting," Martin continues. He sounds closer now. "Now you're the one in chains. How do you like it, Lieutenant?"

He tacks Gil's rank on with a childish sort of mockery, like it's some sort of an insult. When he jerks his arms this time it's more out of frustration than any hope he can slip free.

"Y'know if you didn't want me to arrest you, you could've tried, I dunno...not serial killing twenty-three people?"

"What's the fun in that?" Martin tuts.

Gil has just enough time to shudder at the breath in his ear before something's being jabbed into his neck. He shouts and flinches away, despite the damage already being done. He turns in time to catch sight of the syringe in Martin's hand before he tosses it over his shoulder, like discarding a piece of trash.

He grits his teeth. Asks, not because he wants to but because he has to, "What'd you give me?"

Martin's face swings into view, a little too close for comfort. But then, just being in the same building is too close for comfort, as far as Martin Whitly is concerned.

"Don't worry, it's just a paralytic. We wanna keep you nice and still, wouldn't wanna mess this up," Martin says, which is disturbingly vague. He gives Gil's cheek a condescending pat and continues, "If you'd been a good boy and drank your tea this might've been easier for you. But now? Well, I'm afraid it's personal. And that means I have to really make you hurt."

"You're still mad about that?" Gil says with a derisive scoff. "That was ages ago. Get over it."

"Oh no, this isn't about my arrest, Gil. That, I could forgive. You have a job to do, I understand," he answers calmly. Almost apologetically. His upper lip twitches, a hint at a sneer but not actually there yet. Then, "It's what you did after my arrest that got you here."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You," Martin says, the underlying menace drawing closer to the surface with each word. "Stole. My Son. From me."

The light touch on his cheek twists into an icy grip, and for a moment he can feel fingernails digging into his cheekbone. He twists his head to the side to break free and can't determine if the motion is made jerky by Martin's vicelike grip or whatever drug he gave him setting in.

"I didn't steal Malcolm from you," Gil says, with what's maybe a little too much confidence for someone in his position.

Martin withdraws his grip, but not before Gil feels the slight trickle of blood down the side of his face. It's not even a relief. He knows it can only mean Martin's getting ready to do something else, and he probably doesn't want to know what that something is.

He needs to stall.

If he can't move he certainly can't escape. But he can talk. If he can keep Martin talking long enough his team will find them. He knows they will. All he has to do is keep Martin the right level of angry, and stay alive.

But then, if anyone's going to figure out where Martin took him it'll be Malcolm. Malcolm who, he has no doubt, won't hesitate to put himself in danger to protect him. And that certainly puts a damper on his 'wait it out' plan. No, he has to be ready to get himself out of here so that the kid doesn't have to. He can't risk this going any other way.

He focuses on wriggling his toes. Fails. That's about to be the least of his problems.

"Oh, you just loved taking my place," Martin says. "Be honest, was it because you couldn't have any kids of your own? Inadequate, in that area? Don't be embarrassed, it's perfectly natural."

Gil rolls his eyes. "You love the sound of your own voice, don't you?"

"Or maybe," Martin continues as if uninterrupted, digging into the inner pocket of his jacket. "That wife of yours was the problem."

Not that he wasn't furious already, but Martin so much as mentioning her sets him off. Which isn't really something you want to give away to the guy who's got you chained to a post, but Gil can't help it. Before Martin can say so much as another word he's snarling, "You don't talk about Jackie."

Martin laughs. He actually laughs. Putting both hands out in a gesture of mock surrender, he says, "Someone's a little touchy."

Gil's attention is drawn away, though, to what's in one of those hands. What he pulled from his jacket pocket. He takes a steadying breath and says with forced disinterest, "A knife? Now that's original."

"What can I say? I love a classic," Martin says, eyeing the blade in his hand like he's only just remembered it's there because Gil pointed it out. "Besides, the art doesn't lie in the weapon itself, Lieutenant Arroyo. The true art is what you do with it. There's a lot you can do with a blade like this."

"You sound like a Swiss Army Knife ad campai--"

His snide remark cuts itself off halfway through in favor of a shout as Martin drives the knife into his gut, just below the ribs. He has this instinct to pull away, or double over in pain, but all he can do is sit there. Completely still as Martin gives the knife a sharp twist, this sort of look in his eyes that's disturbingly, unsettlingly close to glee.

Gil opens his mouth to say something, he's not sure what, and instead just gasps.

He's going to have to lay off Malcolm for being so damn danger prone if he keeps getting himself stabbed like this.

"Oof, that sounds like it hurts," Martin says, nice and patronizing. He takes his time pulling the blade out, wiping the edges carefully off on Gil's jeans. "The crazy thing is, I missed all of your vital organs. That won't kill you. It might feel like it will, but it won't. Not right away."

"Are you getting to a point soon?"

"Everything always has to have a point, doesn't it?" Martin says, shoulders sagging, suddenly, apparently bored. "You want a moral, fine. Think a little harder about who you're stealing from next time. Well...there won't be a next time, but you know what I mean."

"I didn't--" Gil starts, hesitating when the tip of the knife traces threatening across his jawline. Martin drums his fingers against his chin thoughtfully, arching a single eyebrow. Challenging him to finish the thought. Screw it. Gil insists anyway, "I didn't steal Malcolm from you."

Martin tuts disapprovingly, digging the heel of his palm into the stab wound.

Maybe Martin's looking for an apology. Maybe he's looking for a fight, if only for the excuse to keep drawing this out. If that's the case, fine. He's not getting an apology, and Gil's fine with him drawing this out. The pain means he hasn't been killed yet, and that's the biggest win he's going to get right now.

It takes him a second to gather enough of himself to speak, but Gil grits his teeth and says, "He's not your _property._ He's your son."

"Exactly!" Martin roars, standing back up to his full height with a sudden explosion of energy. He slams a fist into his own chest for emphasis and echoes, "My son! I'm his father! Not you!"

He punctuates the last bit by jabbing the tip of the knife in an aggressive point at Gil. And maybe this is the wrong route for him to be taking, because this isn't the good kind of angry. This is the kind of rage that leads to more stabbings, not the kind that leads to keeping a captive alive for the sake of arguing with them.

"Yeah," Gil says anyway. "Well if you really cared about him, you'd be glad he had someone there for him. 'Cause you sure as hell weren't gonna be."

Martin's upper lip twitches. He paces a step closer once more. Snarls, "Whose fault is that?"

"I just arrested you, I didn't make you guilty," Gil says. Tough to say for sure whether the tight clench in his jaw is anger or paralytic. "You did that all on your own, knowing what it would do to them if you were caught. Not because you had to. You did it for fun. You never loved them."

Martin surges forward, crouches back down in front of him, and in that instant Gil's pretty much convinced that's it for him. Those are his last words and he's going to die right here, right now.

And maybe Martin's thinking the same thing before he gets a better handle on his anger. Takes in a deep, steadying breath and then puffs it back out, jerking his head like a spooked horse. Looks back at Gil and some of the fury gives way to a bitter intrigue. And maybe, just maybe, death would've been kinder.

"Hold this for me, would you?" Martin says, before stabbing the knife into Gil's right thigh. It doesn't end there, because of course it doesn't. "Don't for one second presume that you're somehow better than me, Lieutenant."

It gets a little hard to answer when Martin takes an index finger and pushes it into the stab wound, twists it around. Gil doesn't think he'll ever get that _squelching_ sound that his own gut makes out of his head--if he even lives long enough for that to become an issue--and he finds himself caught between crying out and gagging.

"You're not better than me," Martin continues, bending his finger cruelly. He slides a second one in to join it, and Gil can't squirm, he can't move, he can't even breath. He thinks that awful whining sound comes from him. "That's _my_ family."

"Don't," Gil pants, with considerable effort.

Martin's left eye twitches. Gil knows because he can't move his head to look away. He can't break eye contact no matter how he wants to.

He gives his fingers another sharp twist before pulling them back out, and it's almost as excruciating as when they went in, and Gil still can't even think about feeling anything else, but at least it's gone. He would shudder if he could. He would vomit if he could.

"You don't," Gil tries again, grunting with the effort, but he can't leave it at that. He can't let Martin win. "You don't deserve them. Malcolm. Jessica. Ainsley. They're too good for you."

Martin yanks the knife back out of Gil's thigh with an aggravated huff, standing back up to pace back and forth. In and out of Gil's line of view. It's at least bought Gil enough time to work on catching his breath.

"They don't belong to you," Martin says with a jerky shake of his head.

"They don't belong to anyone."

Martin growls. Takes a fistful of Gil's hair, as if to keep him from moving, as if he could move at all, and presses the tip of the knife into his skin. Just below his eyebrow, just above his eye. Martin's breath, ragged and hot, wafts across his face. And Gil's glad he can't flinch, because he knows he would and he doesn't want to give Martin the satisfaction.

A slow stream of blood streaks down across his eyelid, catching in his eyelashes and forcing him to squint to keep it out of his eye. Martin keeps eye contact the whole time and that's almost worse than the knife.

"This can still get a lot worse for you, Lieutenant," Martin says.

For Gil, it's a warning. For Martin, it's an opportunity.

He wills his toe to move again and fails again. Hums, "Don't threaten me with a good time."

Martin laughs. He laughs like he's genuinely amused. Like they're old friends, catching up after a long time. But maybe Gil can live with making Martin laugh, because for now it means he pulls the knife away again.

"You have a sardonic sense of humor," Martin tells him, nodding thoughtfully. Everything suddenly shifts right back to unsettling, serial killer land when he licks his lips and says with a dead-eyed grin, "I can see why Malcolm likes you."

He runs his fingers, sticky with Gil's own blood, through Gil's hair with an almost longing sigh. It's the only moment of warning, and then Gil's head is being slammed back into the harsh wood of the post. Then Martin gets up and paces out of sight once more, and Gil's too disoriented to focus on what he might be doing.

"You think he'll forgive you after you kill me?" Gil prompts, half dizzy.

"He won't be very happy with me," Martin concedes with ease. He squats back down in front of Gil, setting something on the floor at his side, just out of eyesight. Says, "But parenting is about making tough decisions. And I know we'll be a lot happier without you poisoning his mind."

If this whole situation weren't so demented, Gil might laugh. _He's_ the one poisoning Malcolm. Sure.

He starts to say some sarcastic comment to that regard, but Martin anticipates it before he can get so much as a word out. Slams Gil's head back into the wood post once more, somehow with more aggression the second time around. Or maybe it just feels that way because the base of Gil's skull already feels like a warzone.

His head spins. Unless it's the barn spinning? No, it's gotta be his head.

He's gonna be sick.

"Focus for me, Lieutenant," Martin practically coos, bringing his unbloodied hand up to cup the side of Gil's face. Somehow the warmth of the touch sends a chill through him. But it's the bruising pressure of a tightening grip that gets Gil's attention back as Martin growls, voice suddenly hard again, "Look at me, Gil."

For some reason, he listens. His eyes refocus only to find themselves trapped under the Surgeon's piercing gaze.

He needs to say something. Keep Martin talking, keep himself alive.

He's trying to think of what he can possibly say that will do that when Martin picks something up off the ground and holds it up in front of his eyes. Gil's not confident he manages to conceal the horror when he says, "Pliers?"

"I've always wondered," Martin says. "How long, exactly, can someone live without a stomach?"

"Ever try Google?"

"I prefer the hands on approach." He passes the pliers from hand to hand, almost like a cat toying with a ball of yarn, but his eyes are fixed on Gil. Watching the fear show up in his expression the way a child watches a firework display. He explains, "The Egyptians pulled your brain out through your nose. I'm thinking we can employ the same principle here, with that incision I made in your gut. Tell me, Lieutenant Arroyo, how attached are you to your internal organs?"

"Very," Gil blurts.

"That's a shame."

He plunges the tip of the pliers into the wound, and Gil gasps out a retching sound that's almost as horrible as the wet squish of flesh and blood and gut. It's agonizing and nauseating and every second feels like an hour, and Gil's wondering if this can get any worse if he throws up on his would be murderer, and if he passes out will Martin stop and wake him up, and what will his team's faces look like when they find his body, and then Martin stops.

No, that's not right.

There's a violent crashing noise, and _then_ Martin stops. He doesn't pull away, or even look all that concerned by the noise, he just stops.

Gil's eyes dart to the barn doors as best as they can when his head won't move with them. The now open barn doors. He can sense motion in his peripheral vision, but he can't get a look at what it is.

He doesn't need to. The excited glint in Martin's eyes tells him what's happening and a fresh panic sets in a half second before Martin says, "Malcolm. My boy."

No, no, no, no. Malcom can't be here right now.

_"Gil."_

One word and Malcolm's voice shakes, panicked and horrified and all wrong, and there's not a whole lot Gil can do to fix it.

He can't even answer properly, because Malcolm greets him first and Martin bristles, Clamps the pliers down on _something_ just because he can. As if it's Gil's fault Malcolm addresses him first.

Gil howls and immediately regrets it. All it does is make the pain worse.

"Stop!" Malcolm shouts, stepping into view. He's alone. Of course he's alone. "Dr. Whitly, stop now."

It's the sharpest instruction he's ever heard the kid five anyone.

And he's got a gun trained on his dad, but Gil's pretty sure not a single person in this barn believes he's ever going to use it. Martin listens anyway. For now. Rolls his eyes and unclenches the pliers, like it's a minor inconvenience for him. Pausing a mildly intriguing show on the t.v. to have a conversation.

Malcolm's eyes flicker over to Gil's, checking on him. He doesn't think he's ever seen the kid so afraid.

He wills himself to nod, maybe even say something, just to reassure him. Comes up short in all areas and, to make things worse, Martin chooses that moment to slip the pliers back out of Gil's gut. Gil bites his lip to keep from screaming, but the pathetic whimper that escapes is somehow worse.

"What--" Malcolm starts, looking to Martin but his eyes keep darting back to Gil's bloody stomach. Like he can't stop himself from looking. He steels himself with a shaky breath, says, "What did you do to him?"

"Well I was removing his stomach before you had to interrupt," Martin says. Then, as an afterthought, "By the way, I'm impressed. I thought it would take you much longer to find me."

"You wanted him to find you," Gil croaks. Half question, half realization.

Martin offers an easy shrug. "Guilty."

"Get away from him now, Dr. Whitly."

"Seriously?" Martin scoffs. He sighs and stands up, not before slamming Gil's head into the post once more, just to be petty. Says, "Come on, Malcolm. You're not gonna shoot me."

The kid doesn't waver. "Don't be so sure about that. Let him go."

"Where's the rest of your team? I'd love to say hi," Martin says, inching forward. Malcolm mirrors it with a step back, adjusting his aim. Martin tuts and says, "Don't tell me you came alone."

"Should I have brought backup?" Malcolm challenges. "I thought you said you'd never hurt me."

"I won't. Now put the gun down, it's embarrassing."

"Let Gil go."

"Put the gun down, Malcolm."

"Bright," Gil starts, and he realizes it's a mistake a second too late.

Malcolm's gaze abandons his father in favor of acknowledging Gil, and Martin leaps on the opportunity. Almost literally. He stomps a foot down on Gil's leg, just below the kneecap, with a sickening crunch.

Gil can't pick his own shout out from Malcolm's.

Martin repeats, "Put the gun down, Malcolm."

"Don't do it, Bright."

Martin grinds his heel in, like flattening a bug. Maybe it's in Gil's head, but he swears he can hear the bone shift.

"Okay!" Malcolm says, holding his hands up in surrender, gun pointed at the roof instead. "You want me to put it down, I will. Just stop. Please."

Malcolm takes a step back, keeping his hands in view and carefully placing the gun on the barn floor. The second he does the pressure is lifted.

There's an illusion of Malcolm giving up control in setting the gun down, but Gil won't delude himself into thinking anyone but Martin ever had it to begin with. He grits his teeth and gives wiggling his toes a third attempt, and can't help the panicked breath when it still doesn't work.

He can't protect the kid. Not like this.

"There's a good boy," Martin purrs. "Now, you're not gonna want to see this. Why don't you take a walk, come back in five minutes or so. We can have a little chat."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Well, it's your choice."

Martin shrugs. He crouches back down at Gil's side, and Malcolm starts forward as if to stop him, only to freeze when the edge of the knife presses firmly into the side of Gil's neck.

He thought having to look Martin in the eye before was bad, now it's Malcolm he can't look away from and seeing that terror is so much worse.

Without really needing to, Martin says, "Careful. One step closer and I kill him right now."

"Let him go," Malcolm urges, hands still up in surrender. "Please."

It's what Martin wants, possibly even more than he wants to kill Gil. He likes hearing the kid beg. That's probably the only reason he even acts like he might be considering it.

He hums thoughtfully and says, "And why would I do that?"

"I--" Malcolm starts, then stops. "He's my friend."

"Not terribly compelling, kiddo."

"You said you wanted to talk, we could have a chat," Malcolm says, almost tripping over the words he says them so fast. His hand shakes in the air and he closes it into a fist to keep it still, goes on, "If you hurt him I will never listen to another thing you have to say. Not ever."

Well, at least there'll be a bright side.

"You'll be upset with me, sure," Martin agrees skeptically. "But we've had our disagreements, you always come back."

"I won't. Not this time."

Martin makes a little doubtful noise from the back of his throat. Cuts a shallow mark in the side of Gil's neck, says, "Yeah, but that's what you always say."

Gil's breath hitches as the blood spills down his neck.

"No! Dr. Whit-- _Dad._ Stop."

That gets his attention. The knife stills once more, but it doesn't withdraw.

"I'm killing him, Malcolm," Martin says, tone just close enough to a parent casually scolding a child, and Malcolm looks mortified. "This isn't a discussion. He has to go."

"Please," Malcolm says again, hands still out on front of him as he gets to his knees in supplication. "I'll do anything you want."

"Kid, no," Gil says, and that's about as far as he gets.

For his effort, he gets a fist curled around the broken bone in his leg. He bites his tongue until it bleeds to keep from crying out again.

"Anything?" Martin echoes, interest piqued.

"That's what he wants," Gil chokes out, even as the grip on his leg tightens. "Bright, you can't."

"You're not his father," Martin growls, pressing the tip of the knife like a warning into Gil's lower eyelid. "You don't tell him what to do."

"And you do?" Gil argues. He swallows the fear, says, "You can't control him like that."

Malcolm saves him from whatever retaliation Martin's planning for that remark. Draws Martin's attention back on himself with a shout of, "Wait!"

He starts to get back up but he doesn't make it all the to his feet. Martin looks over at him, and the kid drops back to his knees almost immediately, palms back out in front of him. The pleased little hum that Martin makes raises goosebumps across Gil's skin, he can only imagine how Malcolm feels.

"I don't think you really wanna kill him," Malcolm says desperately.

Martin narrows his eyes. "Is this some sort of reverse psychology? You're smarter than that, Malcolm."

"No, listen," he insists, eyes wide and pleading. "You wanna kill him because he took me away from you, right? I understand. But if you do this, he just dies and that's it. It's over."

"Yes well, that's kind of the point."

"No, you--You wanna make him hurt, right?"

From where Gil's sitting, he's already done that. In overachiever fashion.

Martin glances between Gil and Malcolm with suspicious consideration, though. Licks his lips and asks, "What are you proposing?"

"Take me instead."

"Don't be preposterous, Malcolm," Martin says dismissively. "Don't you know by now? I could never hurt you."

Whether it's genuinely slipped Martin's mind that he's tried to kill Malcolm before, or he's just convinced himself that didnt happen, or what, it doesn't matter. It hasn't slipped Malcolm's mind, but he nods like he believes that anyway.

"Not what I meant," Malcolm says, shaking his head. He indicates Gil with a small nod, explains, "You have to take me away from _him."_

No. Gil doesn't like where this is going.

"Bright, no."

His gaze flickers back over to Gil, guilty and scared, before his attention is fixed back on his father. He says, "It's the only way you can make him feel the same pain that you did."

Martin frowns, dropping the knife away from Gil's face slowly, uncertainly.

"You'd do that to him? Willingly?"

It keeps Gil alive, of course he will. God, he doesn't know who he hates more right now, himself or Martin. He can't make himself move to do anything to stop this, and Martin's sitting there pulling the kids strings like this isn't anything more than some twisted game.

"Yes," Malcolm says, after one quick apologetic look over at Gil.

"Well, we could go somewhere," Martin says, hopeful in a way that sends a shiver down Gil's spine. "New York is so bleak this time of year."

"We agree."

"We do?" He doesn't know how much effort it takes, but Malcolm nods. Martin smiles, and even just out of the corner of Gil's eye it's so much worse than all those malicious or dead grins, because this one is genuine. It's damn near giddy. "Alright then, let's go somewhere. Just me and you."

"No," Gil interjects. He shuts his eyes a second, gathering strength somehow, repeats, "No."

"Gil, stop," Malcolm says with a small shake of his head.

But it's too late.

Martin tangles his fingers in Gil's hair, forcing his head roughly to the side. The tip of the knife is back at his throat, and Martin growls in his ear, "You're not going to take him from me again, Lieutenant Arroyo. I won't let you."

"Don't," Malcolm says, one hand out in an aborted reaching motion. "It doesn't work if you kill him, Dr. Whitly." 

"You were calling me dad just a second ago," Martin says, ostensibly casual but there's something far worse lurking beneath the surface.

"Dad," Malcolm adjusts.

"It doesn't work anyway," Gil insists, as firmly as he can. "I'm not gonna feel the betrayal you did if you manipulate him into leaving with you."

"Gil, stop talking."

"It was his idea," Martin says, roughly releasing his grip on Gil's hair. He gets up, stalks towards Malcolm and continues, "Wasn't it, my boy?"

He brings a hand up to caress the side of Malcolm's face, thumb tracking Gil's blood over his cheekbone, and Malcolm shuts his eyes and nods. Says around a shaky breath, "Yea, it was."

Martin misinterprets the kid's nerves, the guilt, willingly or otherwise.

"It's alright my boy, dad's here," he says, sweet like poison. "We're gonna have so much fun together, me and you."

"Get away from him," Gil snaps.

Malcolm's hand shakes like a butterfly in a hurricane at his side, and Martin seems totally oblivious as he turns to look back at Gil. He doesn't make a single move to step away from Malcolm, but a sinister grin replaces the falsely soothing expression.

"It does hurt you. Knowing I have him," Martin observes, all too pleased with himself as he cards his fingers through Malcolm's hair. "Knowing he's with me. But it's more than that, isn't it, Lieutenant? You're scared of what I can make him do."

His hand drops away at last. Malcolm shudders, averts his gaze from the both of them.

And they both catch it, and in that moment Gil knows their fates are sealed. There's nothing he can do. His own limbs are still betraying him.

"Well, let's not dawdle," Martin says, gesturing for Malcolm to stand up. He's already starting for the door, saying, "I hope you brought a car. Mine's stolen. Plates might attract some unwanted attention."

But Malcolm doesn't answer. He's rushing to Gil's side, dropping to the ground there so hard that Gil winces for his knees.

"I'm sorry, Gil," he says, just quiet enough to keep his father from hearing. This close, Gil can see his eyes are watering. He aches to comfort him and there's not a thing he can do about it. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, kid."

It's not. It's not going to be okay for a very long time, he can sense that much.

But it's also not Malcolm's fault. And this is the only reassurance Gil can provide right now. Probably the only reassurance he'll be able to offer for awhile. Maybe ever again, but he doesn't want to think about that right now.

"Malcolm," Martin sighs impatiently from a short distance off. "What are you doing?"

"If we leave him like this he'll bleed out," Malcolm says, clearing his throat and shifting into action. "The point is for him not to die."

"Of course. You think of everything. So smart," Martin says with a nod. He sends a wink over in Gil's direction and makes sure to add, "He gets that from me."

Malcolm shucks his suit jacket, pressing the fabric into the stab wound in Gil's abdomen. Gil does what he can to hide the fresh pain it creates, and the guilt in Malcolm's expression doubles anyway.

"This isn't your fault," Gil tells him. If nothing else, he needs Malcolm to know that.

"Give us thirty seconds to leave," Malcolm says, placing his cell phone on the ground at Gil's side and moving to undo the chains. "Then call for help. Okay?"

"I can't move, kid," he admits weakly.

"Good thing phones nowadays have a voice activation feature," Malcolm says.

He can't quite seem to get the chains undone, and when his hands fumble for the third time he lets out a noise that sounds too much like a sob.

"It's okay," Gil says again.

"The key is in the hay to your left, Malcolm," Martin says with a yawn. "The authorities should be able to find it, inadequate as they may be without you."

Malcolm draws back, looking frightened and ashamed and young. Too young, all of a sudden. And he doesn't have room to argue, but Gil can't nod, so he hopes it shows in his eyes somehow that he understands.

"I have to go."

"Bright," Gil manages, and Malcolm halts. Looks hesitantly back at him. "You're smarter than him. Don't let him make you forget that."

He gives an uncertain nod. "Okay."

"I'll see you soon, got it, kid?"

That, Malcolm doesn't answer. He maybe can't bring himself to.

He turns and starts after his father for the door. Once he's within distance, Martin doesn't hesitate to sling a possessive arm across Malcolm's shoulders. Saying, loudly for Gil's sake, "We have so much lost time to make up for. Where should we go first, my boy?"

Gil wills himself to move one final time, getting nowhere one final time. He can see the kid's hand quivering from here.

Malcolm was right.

God, Malcolm was right, and Gil's only alive because of him but he's more and more convinced this barn is actually hell with every step they take. He tries to focus on breathing and that, too, gets harder the further away they get.

That kid is his life and he's losing it, even if he's not actually dying.

And yes, Malcolm was right, because watching the kid walk away in Martin's arms is a deeper torment than anything else the Surgeon could've possibly done to him.

A car engine starts up outside.

Gil forces himself to stay conscious long enough to call for help. He doesn't die here. He's not doing that to Malcolm. It's gonna take a lot more than blood loss and paralytic to get him to give up on that kid.


End file.
